Wrecking Ball
by nevergone4ever
Summary: Broken. That's all we are. Our minds, once so young and docile and so freaking innocent, have blackened. They've turned over and over, each time scarring us for life. And we just can't fight back.


"_**I never meant to start a war"**_

_Words…._

_They're idiotic and unneeded._

_They describe absolutely nothing._

_How do you describe… a "person"?_

_Or… "Light."_

_Or how about the word… "Everything?"_

_Actions._

_Actions, they are what save us from everything._

_They are what keep us sane._

_They are the light. The people. The everything_

_They save us._

**Katniss **

Life. It's pointless. For me, at least. Nothing. Nothing has a point any more. Everything… it's so bland. Where is the variety? The spice? The tingle in my teeth that I get when I'm excited?

It's all so gone.

Take Peeta. He's gone insane. He's probably more destroyed than most of us. His life was a slamming door, a dark room in the attic. Screaming voices, the fatal sounds of blasting guns. No kind words. No soft tones. Just hardened, blackened noises that were battered around before they reached his ears.

Take Finnick. He's so different. When his love, Annie, was killed in that car wreck, he _knew_. He _knew_ it and yet he leapt into the flames, scorching himself beyond possible repair, just to snatch her burnt body from the fire. From the terrors. He keeps reaching out, his haunted eyes huge. I used to think he wanted a grip on reality. Now I think he's just reaching out for Annie's soft, sallow skin.

Take Cato. He's not beyond repair, but he's dangling on the edge; he's _almost_ too far gone. Those blue eyes that used to flicker with the vibrancy of life, they're so cold. They're not even blue anymore. They're just… colorless. Nobody knows what happened that night except for him, and he can't speak beyond a stuttering murmur.

Take Johanna. Nobody even knows what happened to the poor girl. She acts fiery, acts tough, acts like she's so freaking bulletproof. She's not. She's just trying to hide her dark, black past. Something scarred her. Something happened one night, or repetitively, or even just once, one time. Maybe it was under a minute. Maybe it lasted hours. She's not telling. At all.

Take Clove. She's… she's losing it. Every single day is a nightmare to her, and she can't even try to battle the demons that possess her. It's not her fault. She's taken all the medications she can, all the tonics and serums and antidotes that they hand her. But nothing has worked. She still screams.

Take Glimmer. She can't even be around a male anymore without shaking uncontrollably. She's that far gone. She can't even talk. One person scarred her, and that's what caused the feral look in her eyes. That's what caused her to clam up each time somebody tried to talk to her. That's what caused her to break.

Take Gloss and Cashmere. What are they so afraid of? They cling to each other like they're each other's grip on life, but Gloss's sunken eyes and Cashmere's bruises signify that they're not even doing anything to calm or protect each other. They're way too late for that. It's a done deal…

Take me. I'm broken, too, and I wake up screaming as much as the rest of them. I don't smile anymore unless it's sarcastic, and even then, it's incredibly forced. My past is an open book for any one of us to see. They say we'll work together like clockwork to help and fix each other, like oil to a squeaky gear. Me, I don't believe them. Trust is lost on me.

Nobody freaking cares about us. That lady, she said she'd try and fix us. The lady with the funny orange butterflies littering her golden hair. She promised us that after a long time, we'd be released from the prisons that we are held captive in. She was so confusing, and nobody really took her seriously. Who would? She literally drove around the back roads, picking up stray, homeless kids to take in. The food is good. So is the living conditions. It's free will, basically, plus schooling. But I just can't battle the feeling that I'm more trapped than ever.

**Cashmere**

There's a reason I cling to Gloss.

He's my everything. Without him, I'd be reduced to a grimy, shaky girl with scraggly blond hair. He's the one who saved me from all the nightmares when nothing seemed plausible any more. He's the one who shouted encouragement at me when I needed nothing more than support. He's the one who holds my hand at dinnertime, when I feel most ill.

He's my brother, and he's the most important thing in my life. I can't stand living without him.

They all try to get me to talk. Clove, she's a sneaky one. Ever since Mrs. Whats-her-face told us to keep diaries and journals, memoirs of our broken, shattered lives, she's been itching to peer inside mine. Once I caught her, greedily reading the first entry. But it's nothing more than scribbles on a paper. I wouldn't be caught dead writing down my life's history in some unguarded book.

I'd be too scared.

Clove had looked over at me, then. She was caught and cornered. She was terrified. "Cashmere," she'd croaked, her brown eyes swimming with mock innocence, "I can totally explain…"

I hadn't given her a chance. Without a thought, my fist collided with her neck and she slumped over, clutching her throat, face contorted in pain. I'd felt no regret then. It was only hours later, when Gloss scolded me, that my face turned bright red with shame and guilt.

It doesn't matter that the first entry was fake. It was based on a tiny grain of truth, and if she found anything out about my past I'd simply die. Literally. There's unguarded knives in the kitchen. I wouldn't be afraid. Death would be peaceful. Fulfilling.

But what would Gloss do? He'd shrivel away into a shell of himself. I don't want to cause my brother any more pain than he's already faced in life. And so I remain alive.

It's very hard to stay alive. It's always, always, always forced. I've been forced to do so many things just to keep breathing. When Mrs. Who-is-she told us all to try and find ourselves writing poems, I failed utterly.

_The big black man is angry._

_Simply angry as can be._

_Why is he angry, I wonder?_

_Oh my God, I realized it's me._

_While Gloss is right beside me…_

_I still can't seem to breathe._

_And yet there's that big man._

_Standing, his mind insistent to seethe._

She read it once. She read it twice. Her expression was completely unreadable as she handed the small cream-colored notebook back. Her eyes were sort of watery. I took that as a sign that I failed. Angrily, I had ripped the paper out of the book, sobbing, my mind trained on the thought of her sending me away, out of this place, away from Gloss. So scared.

She didn't stop me, the lady didn't. She picked up the paper that I had crumpled onto the ground. She read it once more and sighed. I was confused. Why wasn't she yelling? It would be easier if she was yelling. But nope, she just looked at me with those huge and sad eyes of hers. She didn't say anything.

Even though I knew that I had failed, that night I whipped up one more quick poem—

_The big black man knows no limits._

_He'd struggle to break through._

_While Gloss and I tremble,_

_His laugh reigns anew._

_He yells at us, calls us failures._

_My eyes fill with tears._

_Crying, Gloss whispered, will only make it worse._

_I know. That's what haunts my fears._

I had read it over, torn it out, then carefully slipped it inside my pillow. Despite my lack of poetry intelligence, that poem was my most prized possession.

**Finnick**

My bed, under the covers.

That's where they find me most days. Hiding. Terrified. My sunken eyes wide, fingers clenching and unclenching because I'm looking for something… _someone_.

Except inwardly, deep down, pushed so far down I can barely even remember it, I know that… I'll never find the thing I'm looking for.

Her name. It's not foreign on my tongue, though it is to everybody else. Annie.

I wonder where she went. She should have been here by now. She knows that I usually am hiding under the thick blankets of my bed, so she should have found me by now. Or is hide-and-go-seek over? Should I come out already?

It doesn't even matter any more.

When the butterfly woman comes into my room, I scream and shout and shriek and screech for somebody. I struggle against the thick iron bracelets that are, for some reason, attached to the sides of my bed. I can't break free! I can't! I need to get free!

She tries to calm me down with her soft, velvety tone and hurt words. I won't fall for it. I _won't_.

She takes out the long, thin silver wand. Murmuring some words that I don't understand, she rubs my arm comfortingly and pushes part of the wand into my skin, causing an uncomfortable pinch. My shouts increase even more. I struggle. My mouth is open wide in a loud, piercing yell.

Suddenly, relief flows through my body like cold soda going down my throat. It's sweet and it, in a way, lets me go. I don't fight the iron bracelets. I smile, sinking into my plush pillow comfortingly. She's still talking, but now the butterfly lady's words make sense.

"Finnick? Finnick? Are you doing okay?"

My eyes snap open. "Yes," I reply, shaking my head. "I made up another poem last night. Would you like to hear it?"

"Of course!" Butterfly Woman snatches a small pad of paper that lies on my bedside stand and the red crayon that's on top of it. "Recite it, please."

"_One bright day in the middle of the night, my eyes shut to see an invisible sight._

_Two dead boys got up to fight._

_Back to back, they faced each other, screaming silently, 'Enemy brother!'_

_They drew their swords and shot each other._

_A deaf, rich, homeless heard the noise and came to kill the two dead brothers."_

"Nice," remarked Butterfly Woman. "One of your best works yet."

I smile. "Would you read me another one?"

"Ye-e-e-e-es," she sounds the word out, flipping through pages of red-marked poems. "Ah, what about one in the wilderness?"

"Okay."

She cleared her throat and read aloud,

"_The frail brown branch is sturdy._

_The soft grey rock is jagged._

_The dancing waters are still._

_The screeching birds are silent._

_The warm summer breeze is chilling."_

"That's it? I don't remember writing something that doesn't rhyme."

She smiles sadly. "It was another time that you were awake, Finnick. I told you, every time I inject you with your medicine, you have a new personality. It can't be helped."

I sigh. "I would like to meet one of these other personalities, at least once. It's terrible, inwardly knowing that you don't even know yourself."

"Just a few moments ago you were kicking and screaming."

"Is that why my shackles chafe so much right now?" I look pointedly down upon the iron circles that bound me to my bed.

Butterfly Woman sighs. "Yes. Would you like me to undo them?"

"No," I blurt out, eyes widened in fear. When she looks at me wearily yet confused, I quickly add on, "They're the only things that keep me from wringing my own neck."

**A/N: Well, new story. I hope you guys all like it. Basically, in a nutshell, the ten are broken, saddened teenagers with dark, treacherous pasts. Here's a basic outline of each. Oh, and the history? Mrs. Effeline Trinket (Effie!) took each of them in with her two sisters, whose identities you'll find out later. They promised to give the teens a better life.**

**By the way…. Thanks for reading. Reviews are food. **

_**Katniss- drawn into her mother's web of poison medications**_

_**Peeta- locked in an attic, given little food, by his insane mother for most of his life**_

_**Finnick- suffers from Multiple Personality Disorder, has nightmares about his true love, Annie, dying in a car crash**_

_**Cato- nobody even knows what happened to him any more**_

_**Johanna- scarred by somebody**_

_**Clove- gone insane, driven by her father's abuse**_

_**Glimmer- terrified of males because of one thing that happened once**_

_**Gloss/Cashmere- left alone and neglected and yelled at, with only each other throughout the whole thing**_


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